More Between Us Chapter 52/? "Night Terrors"
More Between Us, Chapter 52/? "Night Terrors"
Day 13, Evening
Sylar narrowed his eyes at first, then relaxed, tilting his head in curiosity or maybe latent defensiveness. He makes it sound like he’s doing me favors. Sylar supposed he was, but that meant, socially speaking, that Peter wanted acknowledgement or gratitude. The same could be said of Sylar’s favors - but those weren’t really favors, of course, they were…something, anything, else. Sylar tracked over Peter’s smiling visage. He then removed the ice cream’s wrapper and took a very cold bite as the frozen dessert attacked the nerves of his teeth. Hope for what, though? Better play-time? Bigger goals? “Ice cream and hope. Just what the doctor ordered,” he said, just a little sarcastic, lifting his ice cream in a toast.
Something tugged at his consciousness, “Um…Ah. What would be your next rule?” He noticed the whole ‘don’t mention my family’ bit hadn’t cropped up yet. So far Peter hadn’t asked for anything degrading or painful - a shock - but maybe he was just being polite at the dinner-table.
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Peter nibbled gently and carefully at the top of the chocolate, flaking off a little section of it and licking that into his mouth to suck into melted goodness. He was engrossed in experiencing the flavor, paying not-that-much attention to Sylar, when the other man asked his question. “Hm? Yeah, um … guess I should have one. I don't know,” he shrugged, “maybe make you answer my questions for once?” Peter gave a sudden big grin at how little Sylar would appreciate being forced to answer anything that struck Peter's fancy. He laughed a little, looking over to gage Sylar's reaction. “No, I don't think that one would work. I think it'd get voted down.”
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An eyebrow quirked at that. That sadistic smile was somehow innocent and very winning but the man’s last name was Petrelli and something about more flies with honey than vinegar came to mind. That rule would certainly not be fun, if anything, it would be downright humiliating and traumatizing given that Peter seemed to be investigating Gabriel’s past. That level of vulnerability was staggering - Sylar couldn’t truly wrap his mind around it even as a fake concept. “Assuming you were king, you wouldn’t get voted down. That’s the whole point; if you could get away with anything. In a democracy, you’d absolutely get voted down,” he asserted. I’d have to be stupid to vote for that.
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“Too bad I can't seem to break the rules of the world. This one at least,” Peter said as his teeth tickled off another flat segment of chocolate to enjoy. Abilities let him break the rules of the real world well enough. “I'd have my hand fixed, be able to watch movies ...” But would I want people around? The answer to that seemed like an obvious affirmative, but the words didn't want to leave Peter's mouth, for reasons he refused to examine. Instead, he set his tongue to licking a furrow in the now-exposed strip of vanilla ice cream at the top of the bar.
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Sylar immediately noted Peter’s shift in attention: from Sylar to the ice cream and whatever mental ‘I wants’ Peter could conjure up. Peter had clearly acclimated faster than he’d thought possible, or probable maybe, but then again, he had been telling the guy the facts of life as they were now. He’d been encouraging the de-sensitization in a way and losing Peter’s constant attention was just an unfortunate side-effect. Sylar glanced at Peter’s very empty champagne glass and posited the theory that Peter was relaxed and tired and probably more pain-free than he’d been all day. He was even tempted to follow in the consumption of booze for pain relief, but he was paranoid of further headache that may result from a hangover. He didn’t think it particularly safe with a concussion, no matter what Nurse Petrelli thought.
Idly, he watched his unaware companion as Peter fantasized and…licked his ice cream. Sylar’s interest sharpened and he found himself staring at the obscene display, licking his lips unconsciously of any residual ice cream, forgetting the stick in his hand. His eyebrows lofted. Never mind that under normal circumstances Sylar would not find a man licking anything arousing but this wasn’t a normal circumstance at all. It had been a long time since he’d seen anything besides porn magazines (which didn’t really do it for him) and this here was live-action. There was no reason for that type of behavior and he wouldn’t care if there was; his eyelids had already lowered and he felt warmer; perhaps he felt…harder as well.
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“I'd make the weather warmer, so we could sit outside in the sun and eat all the ice cream we wanted.” He looked across the table at Sylar levelly for a second or two, trying to make sense of what he meant by the 'we' that was in there. Then he brushed it off, raising his ice cream bar to suck at the bottom of it, where it inevitably melted first due to the constant warmth of his hand. “Not much point in getting out of here until I can take you with me,” he mused in between rude, short, sucking sounds. He knew he was being very immature and impolite about his food, but if Sylar was offended, he could go fuck himself. Peter was having fun eating.
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Sylar blinked a few times to try to right his expression, allowing his brow to drop; he must have managed it okay. Something about taking me? But then Peter was right back at the ice cream - that goddamn sexual metaphor - with intensity. Sylar bit his lip at the noises Peter made. Live action plus the far more memorable sound effects. God, he’d been so long without action - he was eating this up like Peter was going at the ice cream. If it kept up, he’d be squirming in his seat, if not adjusting or outright touching himself. Jesus Christ. Peter, you tease. This was not the first time Peter had…creatively played with his food. Sylar felt sick, though, despite the flood of long-absent hormones. This was his enemy (sort of his brother) he was drooling over. It was a new low he’d achieved. His breath came shorter while he bit into the ice cream bar to rid himself of his urge to bite or growl about the teasing. He chewed voraciously even as the cold went to his head and his teeth. It was so bad but it was pretty good, too, this typical masochistic lust of his. With each lewd slurp, Sylar felt his dick harden that much more. He had other substitutes for Peter’s mouth than that ice cream bar, or so his imagination prescribed. He ran through the reasons of why, again, he wasn’t taking Peter by bodily force because it sounded like a really good idea right now.
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“I guess I need to come up with a real rule. Everything I-” He stopped himself in the middle of saying he couldn't think of anything he'd want that Sylar would be willing to give (like cooperation or promising not to act like an asshole). He stopped because he'd thought of something he did want, that maybe he could get. “I'd make it a rule that you had to be truthful about your medical state to anyone who was providing health care services to you.”
Peter looked for Sylar's reaction, sucking at the top of the ice cream bar to leave behind the top inch or so as a hollowed out shell. His next move would be to bite sections of that shell off bit by bit. Then he'd start on the sides.
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Erect. That’s my medical state right now. Hopelessly erect. Teased to potentially violent action? Sexually frustrated? Insane? Check, check, check. Sylar met Peter’s eyes, certain his own gaze was ravenous. It snapped him out of it with a blink and a snarling grimace at having to tear his attention away from Peter’s icy pink mouth around an ice cream bar that would never, ever be innocent in his eyes again. He slumped back, forcing his sex-starved mind to focus on whatever rule Peter had decided on.
Who says I haven’t been truthful? “Wouldn’t that just rob you of the fun of figuring it out? Like choose your own adventure or something,” he swallowed and cleared his throat but it had nothing to do with the conversation. “That’s assuming the health care provider isn’t in a position and has no inclination to fuck you up. I’m not going to present you with opportunities like that.” (Even though he’s been fine so far)…It just bothers me because I can’t figure out why my health and comfort suddenly matters.
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Peter sighed and frowned, directing his attention back to the shell of chocolate. He wanted to defend and argue, but if his conduct to date hadn't been a good illustration of his ethics, then no number of words was going to help. It was depressing, though. I thought I was doing a good job. I haven't killed you, or stabbed your eyes out or slit your throat or … yeah. 'Inclination' - concussion or not, I guess he can tell that.
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On a literally pressing subject, Sylar rasped, “I’d like to get laid. I’d make a rule about that.” And I’d like to enact it now. To hell with ruining tonight’s slumber party - if Peter could say what he wanted, then so could Sylar. To hell with Peter’s little ‘not my type/I won’t sleep with you’ statement, too, when testosterone and blood was pumping to his organ.
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Peter's eyes narrowed at that, glancing up from having munched down the thin layer of chocolate and effectively shortened the ice cream bar to about two-thirds its previous size. “You know, for someone who's afraid I'm going to smother them in their sleep, you're awfully pushy about getting in bed with me.” He leaned back, half-regretting his words, half-pleased that he'd said it anyway.
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A couple of blinks, then a slight tilt of his head was his only reaction. Sylar didn’t appreciate (or find accurate) the use of the word ‘afraid.’ Paranoid, maybe. Justified. You have no reason to be nice so I know I wouldn’t enjoy it - you’d make sure of that. And who said anything about sleeping together? That last thought he found the most interesting.
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Peter huffed, shooting an accusatory look at the champagne bottle. He shook his head, his feelings continuing to be ambivalent - he should apologize, but he didn't care, both at the same time. “Fine. You'd make a rule about that if you were king of the world. I'd make it a rule that people had to look out for each other, instead of screwing each other up all the time.”
With another sharp exhale, he went back to his ice cream, prizing off the strip of chocolate from one side and then the other, less enchanted with it now that he'd gotten pissy over Sylar's insinuation that he was a bad nurse. Or whatever it was Sylar was insinuating. 'Hey, I think you might kill me if you had the chance - that makes me so hot' just made no sense at all. Peter kept his eyes on his side of the table (and mostly on his ice cream), quietly bristling, good mood abruptly spiked by the indecipherable contradiction.
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Sylar glared, his plans foiled once again (not that he’d really expected it to work - maybe Peter just hadn’t had enough booze, yeah, that was it. Though he didn’t legitimately want to fuck a drunk Peter). Oh, because you’re here to look out for me, not your girlfriend. I can still ‘screw’ you, Peter; don’t test me. To his relief and regret, Peter seemed through with his more obscene eating habits - the majority of it seemed to be chocolate coating. Sylar pushed at his erection with the heel of his hand to give it the hint that it needed to disappear, taking a large bit of ice cream again, focusing on the cold of it. I guess it’s my turn again.
“I want my abilities back. Here,” he stated petulantly, mournfully, frowning at his treat, then at Peter. “Just to have them. I miss having them. Even if it’s not the same without people.” They’re not really special without people to see them. Same for me. I’d make a law that I’d be special but it wouldn’t be real - I haven’t earned it. It was honestly like being an amputee suffering from phantom limb. They were at least familiar and comforting - the abilities, not people - hell, he probably liked his powers better! Humans being something he could never figure out. Abilities, unlike humans, met his needs. “I think if…there were more people my, um…the…the Hunger would come back, you know? It’s a trade-off, I think,” Sylar admitted without knowing why, maybe just to draw Peter out of his mood, get him to engage again. That much was surprising, the implication of a trade-off - it was unexpected. It wasn’t like he’d been faring any better when surrounded by people. “I’m surprised it didn’t come back with you being here.” Even if your ability is pretty worthless. You make me hungry in other ways, I guess. Sylar glanced over what little he could see of Peter’s body above the table.
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“Glad it didn't,” Peter said, Sylar's disclosure softening him from his momentary grumpiness. “The Hunger, that is.” He watched as Sylar gave him something of a sizing up, eyes traveling over him almost palpably. Peter cocked his head a little at that, then took a sedate, sucking bite out of what was left of his ice cream bar. That Sylar was looking him over didn't bother him. If anything was going to perk Peter's interest, it was appreciation followed by an absence of aggression - not that he was interested. He directed his attention back to the ice cream bar, now entering that careful phase where you tried to keep what was left of it on the stick long enough for you to eat it before it fell off.
He was studying the ice cream bar when he said, “I'm not real happy about you cutting my head open. If I were king of the world, I'd make you apologize for that.” I don't know if I'd believe you, but it would be nice to hear it. He glanced up a few times as he finished his dessert, sucking the stick clean and then nibbling at the ring of chocolate left on it. There was no heat in his voice or even much in the way of accusation. What Sylar had done to him way back in Mohinder's apartment was wrong. Peter was still ticked about it, but he had far greater offenses to reserve his wrath for.
He put the stick down and cracked open his bottle of water, taking a swig before asking with simple curiosity, “Was it the abilities you liked having, or what they let you do?”
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His gaze since returned to Peter, Sylar spared a second to contemplate the difference. His own didn’t abilities immediately strike him as having those two aspects so clearly - they were almost one and the same for him - but he’d killed other specials for the sins of self-loathing and misuse. There definitely was a difference. “Both.” It was something of a random question filled with meaning (or so he supposed). “Does that…matter somehow?”
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“Well … you said you wanted your abilities back, here, but I couldn't tell if you wanted other people around or not. It made me wonder if it's just having the abilities that you like, or if it's using them on other people - what you can accomplish, what you can change. It's the difference between inward-directed or outward, I guess. One is …” he waved his hand vaguely, “the abilities change you, make you different; the other is the abilities let you change everything else.”
Peter pondered for a few moments, staring sightlessly at his plate, empty of all but a clean popsicle stick. His brows twitched as he thought of another way to put it. “It's like, which do you enjoy more - getting to play the game, or winning it when you do get to play? Would you play if you didn't get to win?” He looked up, watching Sylar with a serious intensity, like the conversation had strayed into something really important. Ironic, then, that Peter didn't know which answer was 'right' or 'better'. The part of him that wanted to be moral and good thought abilities should be judged by how they let you change (for the better, he hoped) the lives of others. But another part of him, a more selfish, denied, and hidden part, wanted to start that change with himself.
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Sylar listened and crunched on the ice cream bar as he did so, contemplating the dialogue and the ideas therein. It was an increasingly personal question. The second analogy boggled his mind because he couldn’t tell what belonged to which - changing himself or the world and playing the game or winning it. He dismissed it. “I still…like both. But if I had to chose…Hmm,” he made a sound of indecision. “It can go either way. I suppose the most effective one is changing yourself.” Sylar threw a check-in glance Peter’s way, almost to see what the other man thought of that, if it was…approved. The guy was watching him intently; it made Sylar wonder what he saw when he looked.
A little uncomfortable, especially with the hanging implication that he wanted or felt he needed to change himself, he made to redirect: “It’s not just…using abilities on people. That’s all you seem to do with them, but there’s more to it. I like that I can reach out…” He extended his hand in a very familiar motion, as if he was choking someone - Peter -- or reaching for something invisibly cylindrical, “and take something.” Fingers flexing, he heaved a rueful sigh before he relaxed back - his target, Peter’s empty glass, unmoved on the table. “I used to be able to. The power of the mind. It’s raw but I can harness it. Do things no one else can.” Be special. Powers substitute what I wasn’t born with. Special comes from the inside, then the things you do with it. I need people and powers to be special. By myself I’m not much. Face darkening, Sylar tried not to remember a similar conversation with Maya in some dusty car in Mexico or how clumsy he’d been with telekinesis at first with Chandra.
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Peter stiffened, sitting up straight, pulling in air, and leaning away. Adrenaline silently flooded through his system, making the room surreal and unimportant - his attention utterly riveted on Sylar's hand. He can't … he can't … he can't do anything … right? He tried to breathe as he waited, finally noticing Sylar's gaze wasn't on him, but on the glass in front of him. Nothing happened and Sylar went on with his spiel, having been focused on his target and not the man sitting behind the glass. A variety of reactions were parading through Peter's mind - attacking, fleeing, smashing aside the things on the table and issuing loud, confrontational threats, or doing nothing at all, as Sylar didn't seem to get how his 'reaching out and taking things' interfered very directly with people's bodily autonomy and sometimes, their life. Peter finally managed to pull in a deep breath, letting it out slowly while a cold sensation of pins and needles flashed along his skin as the fight-or-flight hormones faded.
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He bit down on his mostly-bare popsicle stick and sucked it clean before raising his eyes to Peter once more, fairly certain his explanation had gone over the hero’s head. Sylar cleared his throat to hopefully cue a shift in the conversation.
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Peter was still sitting there immobile, though paler than he had been before. When Sylar finally looked directly at him and cleared his throat, Peter jerked a little. “Yeah. Well. We're done here.” He nodded to himself, standing and gathering up his plate and empty glass, carrying them into the kitchen with steady, sharp movements that betrayed his suddenly elevated tension. He didn't do anything. I've got to relax. It's no big deal, he thought, trying to sooth his nerves.
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“No, Peter…C’mon…” Sylar practically whined. The other man’s abruptness was obvious, the cause less so.
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That tone of voice had Peter glancing back, eyes narrowed to slits as he looked over his shoulder from the sink. He doesn't have a clue. He didn't even mean it. But he should have. Is he killing people without even understanding …? Peter turned away again, shaking his head. He didn't feel that Sylar's issues were his problem. He's still a murderer.
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Sylar stared after Peter for a moment, sighing, and getting his own rear in gear to clean up. It hurt his head to stand again. I don’t even know what I did. He asked a question and I answered it, he stewed, taking his plate and cup to the sink. ‘Be honest, but don’t answer my questions’ is that it? Why ask the fucking question then, if you don’t want my answer? The air was tense with discomfort and awkwardness, any proximity was unhelpful. He wasn’t happy about it, having preferred their amiable meal much better. He huffed and moved with rough efficiency, going back for the crackers, twisting the plastic sleeves closed, stuffing those back into the boxes which went into the canvas bag while Peter handled the cheese.
Some birthday. Can’t even sit through one fucking meal without fucking something up. Talking too much again. Something about this was bothering him, the formula seemed familiar - trying to please and failing, having the night’s events and his role in them dictated to him. Wandering back into the kitchen to be useful or close despite the aura, he asked, “Do you want this?” when he spotted his barely-sampled champagne cup, lifting it so Peter could see. Great going - he’ll probably think I mean to get him drunk. “Just…Never mind,” he replaced it on the counter in frustration. Let Peter handle it. He swiped at his brow, positioning himself hopefully out Peter’s way.
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Peter looked at Sylar's glass. He wouldn't mind more champagne, but he was done with the meal and done with dealing with Sylar. He just wanted to get away from him and besides, drink out of Sylar's glass? Uh, no thanks. As Sylar was still more-or-less underfoot, very present in Peter's space (or at least the room Peter was in, which was closer than Peter wanted Sylar to be at the moment), he directed, “Go get the rest of the champagne and put it up.” He watched with still-angry eyes as Sylar moved off to do it. Marginally less tense, Peter added, “You can turn the cork upside-down and it should fit.” He sighed, turning back to close the fridge after putting away the cheese, and set the knife down next to the sink.
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Sylar gave him a matching look but took up the bottle and made to follow the instructions, getting the cork off the screw and turning it dry-side down for reinsertion. He shoved it back inside and placed it in the fridge.
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The only things left on the table were the bottles of water. Peter carried them back, offering them to Sylar to put in the fridge as the man turned from putting away the champagne. His voice another step calmer, Peter said, “Yours is the one partly empty. Mine's the nearly full one.” He looked away after brief eye contact. “I'm going to go to bed.”
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Sylar accepted the pair of plastic bottles, positioning Peter’s on the left, his own on the right. It made sense given that the master bedroom (Peter’s for the night) was on the left; the guest bed (Sylar’s) was on the right. He moved out of range of the fridge door, turning to look at Peter as he spoke. A nod was all he could answer with, unhappy with the- with his situation. He didn’t want to sleep but knew he should. Mostly he hated having the stigma of Peter’s hatred for whatever it was he’d done to earn it (again) more recently. It would probably result in nightmares despite the proximity with the other man. If I could just hear him breath when he sleeps, I’d feel better. But that’s the whole point.
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Peter walked over to the open-plan bedroom he'd chosen. He felt exposed, not even sure Sylar was going to go to bed himself. What if he stayed up, hung around in the living room, which was just feet away from Peter's bed? It's not like I haven't fallen asleep with him around. Of course, he was a bit more concussed then and hadn't just reminded me of how much he likes to go Darth Vader on people who annoy him. Just because, 'raw power of the mind' and stuff. Peter exhaled. I'm not going to live in fear. 'Fear is the mind killer' … isn't that from some other movie? His brows pulled together as he failed to place the quote.
Peter gave a brief shake of his head at the irrelevancy and moved around the bed, putting his back to Sylar and sitting down. He brought up one foot to rest on the opposite knee as he unlaced his shoe, tugging it off and dropping it aside. He wiggled his toes, running his fingers between them and looking at the state of his sole. The blisters from his first few days here were now unremarkable, pink patches of skin that he recognized only because he knew what he was looking for. He rubbed over them, massaging his foot for a moment before switching to repeat the process with the other shoe and foot. When done, he picked up the shoes and loosened the laces so they'd be quick and easy to put on in a hurry if he needed. This last wasn't due to Sylar - it was something he'd been doing since being hunted by Homeland Security. He set them down together right where his feet would hit the floor in the morning, socks on either side.
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Sylar aimlessly almost followed Peter into the bedroom. Instead he hovered between the bathroom and master bedroom, staring at Peter. He didn’t know why he did it, really, just that Peter was here and more interesting than any room. He didn’t know what he was looking for, if anything, because he didn’t expect to see anything amazing. It was that stupid longing for human presence, and, as usual, it came across as creepy and perverted and desperately lonely when he wasn’t angering the life forms around him.
He found interest, though, even in Peter’s most mundane actions, perhaps because these - performed with Peter’s back turned - were unguarded. He knew the empath’s back was still sore and that he’d been limping some days ago, but Peter’s care of his feet (of all things) was attentive. Sylar assumed they were bothering Peter somehow - why else look at them? Not that they were bad looking feet; Nathan had grown up with those feet but Sylar couldn’t see them clearly from where he stood now.
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He pulled his shirt off over his head, looking back to see what Sylar was up to. Peter didn't usually sleep wearing much - boxers were his usual, but it wasn't like he'd brought anything with him. He wasn't going to advertise his paranoia by remaining in his jeans, and sleeping in underwear was too confining to be comfortable. Going naked … despite his desire to conquer his fear by facing it down, that was a step too far. (Also, parading around nude was rude.) Peter dropped the shirt on the bed and stood to go through the dresser and closet for options. He finally settled on elastic-waisted sweat pants. A retreat into the bathroom allowed him to change and take care of his needs before emerging in his new sleepwear.
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So much for not seeing anything amazing - Peter’s shirt came up and off, revealing a toned, tan back (because, of course, even Peter’s spine had to be muscled). As a body part it wasn’t a provocative one, but the amount of it, bare as it was now, and the knowledge that it was very nice human skin, when Sylar hadn’t seen any in years, was tempting. More so because of how soft it looked. The other man glanced around to see where he was. Sylar didn’t move, though he felt he probably should. What are you waiting for? A lullaby? A good night kiss? You’re not his brother.
While Peter rummaged in the drawer, Sylar withdrew to the other bedroom. He’s actually going to wear something he found in a random apartment? He’s still wearing the clothes he arrived in. Maybe that was his own personal preference, but wearing ‘someone else’s’ clothes seemed unappealing to Sylar. Am I supposed to change? Should I leave the door open? Oh, what the fuck - its not like he’s going to check on me. Sleeping in jeans didn’t give him trouble. Not when he’d been sleeping fully-clothed for….well, a long time. Don’t lose any clothes this time.
He glanced up at the sound of various bathroom pipes activating but Peter didn’t appear in his doorway. Sylar sighed and sat on the bed. Unlike the master bed, its side was up against the wall. He tugged off his shoes, setting them by the side table. His coat was next - he rested that on the foot of his bed. He felt his head pound at the idea of lying prone on the mattress and his body suddenly dragged from the exploits of the day. Pulling back the covers allowed him to slide inside. It felt weird, this bed. It was way too big even though he mostly fit on it for a change, unlike his own cot. This felt too…open. Having sheets and a comforter was also strange but there was no help for it. Resigning himself to feeling miserable, nightmares, the strange bed and vulnerabilities therein, he clicked off the lamp and tried to burrow into the blankets.
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Peter pulled back the covers and waited silently for more than a minute, not sure what he was listening for. Sleet was still stinging against the windows now and then, accompanied by gusts of wind, but if Sylar was making any noise, Peter wasn't hearing it. He's always been good at stealth, Peter thought, considering the various times the man had just appeared out of nowhere - at the end of the corridor at Wells High, at Kirby Plaza, and most spooky of all, at Mohinder's apartment. He shook his head and climbed under the covers. Thinking about how good Sylar is at sneaking up on me and mur- trying to murder me is pretty dumb for going to bed with him in the next room. Is it murder if I recover? I think it would be. Attempted murder at the very least. Ow, hand hurts. My wrist, too. And, damn it, my back. Should have taken some painkillers … maybe drank more ...
Peter struggled to find a comfortable position, being too tired to toss and turn. Instead, he made a few unhappy, inarticulate grunts, trying out two or three positions before deciding to bore himself to sleep thinking about the law. It worked, but his first dream was an outgrowth of those thoughts - he and Sylar were sitting in Nathan's political office, just like they had been before Rene showed up to tell him about the storage unit. Except Sylar didn't look like Nathan. He was just Sylar and in the dream, Peter didn't mind. They were chatting about Mom and the carnival and things he couldn't remember real well, hanging out relaxed with one another. That was all it was - an unsettling dream, to be sure, but milder than the reality.
There were others - some banal, some disturbing, some just half-waking sensations of very real pain or wariness. The combination of discomfort, unfamiliar setting, and apprehension about his roommate did not sit well with his subconscious. Although he was usually able to direct himself out of troubling dreams, he grew tired and frustrated with himself and tried to force himself to stay asleep. So when the nightmare started, he did.
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Sylar had managed to doze at least, his full bladder protesting enough to keep him from sleeping well. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he grudgingly woke himself. No nightmares yet but by going to the bathroom, he hoped to prevent any at all (unlikely). The headache had faded to a dull roar but it quickly raced to more sharp, shooting pains of being awake. He groaned and grumbled to himself, peeling off the warm covers to stand on unsteady feet. Without waking fully or being consciously aware of his surroundings, Sylar walked to the closet - approximately where his own bathroom was in his apartment. The handle was different and he couldn’t find the light switch. What he could see didn’t look like a tiled bathroom, so he looked around the rest of the room to figure out where the hell he was. Recollection hit him - he wasn’t in his apartment - and slowly the layout came back to him as well. He shuffled down the mini-hall to the bathroom - this time succeeding in finding both light switch and toilet. “Gah!” the light blinded him for a moment, literally, stabbing his eyes. He brought a hand up to get some relief from the glare and felt his way to the toilet using the sink counter. He was definitely sitting this round - sightless and unbalanced as he was from his injuries.
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Like the other dreams, it was just a situation - Peter’s thoughts too disjointed for anything with a plot. His father was trying to force him down into a cargo container like the one he'd been confined in for that horrific trip to Ireland. He knew cargo containers usually had their doors on the ends, but this one in the dream had it in the top - it was decidedly coffin-like. At first, he teetered precariously on the edge, Arthur trying to push him in with what Peter assumed was telekinesis while Peter resisted with some unseen power of will. A final, vicious shove and Peter lost his balance with a rough gasp, barely catching himself from plummeting into the yawning blackness beneath him by using flight. He couldn't get away, though. No matter how much he strained, he couldn't seem to evade his father's power. He groaned low in his throat, the noise coming out as an uneven rasp. He fought with the blankets for a moment, thinking they were his dad. Tangled in them, he lashed out unevenly with his right, being rewarded with a stab of pain from his broken hand.
The pain pulled a sharp cry from him as his eyes flew open but he didn't truly wake. It was dark - whatever light there was from the other rooms wasn't enough to penetrate Peter's sleep-fogged fear that he'd fallen inside the container and was going to be locked away forever, forgotten and starving in the oppressive darkness, deprived of everything and everyone, even of his sense of self.
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Rubbing at his forehead to try to ease his wounded retinas, Sylar heard one of those emergency noises, the kind that automatically raised the hair on the back of his neck. In the dead of night. It caught his attention instantly as he was finishing up and he paused after drying his hands, head cocked to listen better, body tense and alert. When it didn’t happen again he went about washing his hands, dismissing the sound. Stupid concussion’s making me crazy. Crazier. Peter’s not helping any.
XXX
His mind rationalized the pain as being from falling. He was trapped then! He made a whimper as tears welled in his eyes, but he scrunched them shut, concentrated, and tried to fly again. Peter felt himself rising and he was almost out of the container when his father appeared again, looming over him angry and judgmental and determined that Peter know his place. “You're grounded!” Arthur shouted at him, pointing a finger at him that made Peter's chest clench in fear. It drove all the breath out of him.
That was almost the end. His concentration broke and his flight failed, but something caught him. Sylar was standing off to the side on the roof of an adjoining container, moving his hand surreptitiously, levitating Peter with his telekinesis. Peter wondered if he'd ever been flying at all, or if it had been Sylar helping him all along. He ignored his father and tried to call out, “Help me!” The words sounded like a hoarse whisper. Peter tried to repeat them more loudly, but although his throat strained, he feared he was too quiet to be heard. “Sylar! No … help-” Stymied, Peter thrashed, trying to reach the edges of the opening he was hovering over. If he could grab an edge … “Get me … get me there … Sylar ...” He struggled with the name, trying to repeat it even though his lips seemed to have turned to ice. His father must have been using an ability on him. Numbly, his tongue stumbled over the name of his potential savior.
XXX
Hand on the switch, Sylar was about to feel his way back to bed with his would-have-been scorched retinas, then he heard it again. This time it was much clearer; he heard words but the alarmed tone was the same. His eyes had been closed as much as possible to protect them but now he forced them open, painfully, asking into the night, “Peter?” It sounded like him. That was my name. “Whatcha need?” Because, obviously, those were very needy sounds. If only he could decipher the location and cause…maybe then he could get some sleep. He left the light on and moved towards the last place he remembered seeing Peter. There was some motion on the bed, he could see with some bathroom backlighting. “Pete?” he said again, looking for confirmation of some kind. He got none. His question turned to worry. “Pete?” The pained motions on the bed ceased entirely.
XXX
Then Peter stopped, going totally still and rigid, not even breathing. Someone was coming close to him - Sylar, he thought. Wasn't that Sylar walking closer, calling him 'Pete' of all things? He would have been annoyed by that if he wasn't so desperate and frightened. His father was still there, a looming threat ready to strike at any moment. He was outside of Peter's field of vision, but that only made him all the more terrifying. Peter made a noise in the back of his throat, trying to ask Sylar for help but he wasn't sure the sound made sense. It came out more as a plaintive bleat of attempted verbalization.
XXX
Sylar was awake as he was going to get, anxious as hell. Oh, God. Did I hit him too hard? Was it the food? The champagne? Does he have an infection? An allergy? That last noise tore at him. It was not a good sound; that was all he knew. An old, familiar instinct roused in him. As quickly as he could - which given the length of his legs meant considerable speed - Sylar went to Peter’s bedside. Something besides floor, some semi-hard object, met his foot when he got close, startling him further. He swore and lost his balance, catching himself on the bed and, since he was in a hurry, he went ahead and sat on the mattress beside Peter, uncaring for once where they touched. “Pete!” he reached out for the younger man’s shoulder, shaking him for a response. Goddamnit, where’s the lamp?! He didn’t know, his shadow partially blocking the light from illuminating Peter. What’s going on?
XXX
Continued...
Day 13, Evening
Sylar narrowed his eyes at first, then relaxed, tilting his head in curiosity or maybe latent defensiveness. He makes it sound like he’s doing me favors. Sylar supposed he was, but that meant, socially speaking, that Peter wanted acknowledgement or gratitude. The same could be said of Sylar’s favors - but those weren’t really favors, of course, they were…something, anything, else. Sylar tracked over Peter’s smiling visage. He then removed the ice cream’s wrapper and took a very cold bite as the frozen dessert attacked the nerves of his teeth. Hope for what, though? Better play-time? Bigger goals? “Ice cream and hope. Just what the doctor ordered,” he said, just a little sarcastic, lifting his ice cream in a toast.
Something tugged at his consciousness, “Um…Ah. What would be your next rule?” He noticed the whole ‘don’t mention my family’ bit hadn’t cropped up yet. So far Peter hadn’t asked for anything degrading or painful - a shock - but maybe he was just being polite at the dinner-table.
XXX
Peter nibbled gently and carefully at the top of the chocolate, flaking off a little section of it and licking that into his mouth to suck into melted goodness. He was engrossed in experiencing the flavor, paying not-that-much attention to Sylar, when the other man asked his question. “Hm? Yeah, um … guess I should have one. I don't know,” he shrugged, “maybe make you answer my questions for once?” Peter gave a sudden big grin at how little Sylar would appreciate being forced to answer anything that struck Peter's fancy. He laughed a little, looking over to gage Sylar's reaction. “No, I don't think that one would work. I think it'd get voted down.”
XXX
An eyebrow quirked at that. That sadistic smile was somehow innocent and very winning but the man’s last name was Petrelli and something about more flies with honey than vinegar came to mind. That rule would certainly not be fun, if anything, it would be downright humiliating and traumatizing given that Peter seemed to be investigating Gabriel’s past. That level of vulnerability was staggering - Sylar couldn’t truly wrap his mind around it even as a fake concept. “Assuming you were king, you wouldn’t get voted down. That’s the whole point; if you could get away with anything. In a democracy, you’d absolutely get voted down,” he asserted. I’d have to be stupid to vote for that.
XXX
“Too bad I can't seem to break the rules of the world. This one at least,” Peter said as his teeth tickled off another flat segment of chocolate to enjoy. Abilities let him break the rules of the real world well enough. “I'd have my hand fixed, be able to watch movies ...” But would I want people around? The answer to that seemed like an obvious affirmative, but the words didn't want to leave Peter's mouth, for reasons he refused to examine. Instead, he set his tongue to licking a furrow in the now-exposed strip of vanilla ice cream at the top of the bar.
XXX
Sylar immediately noted Peter’s shift in attention: from Sylar to the ice cream and whatever mental ‘I wants’ Peter could conjure up. Peter had clearly acclimated faster than he’d thought possible, or probable maybe, but then again, he had been telling the guy the facts of life as they were now. He’d been encouraging the de-sensitization in a way and losing Peter’s constant attention was just an unfortunate side-effect. Sylar glanced at Peter’s very empty champagne glass and posited the theory that Peter was relaxed and tired and probably more pain-free than he’d been all day. He was even tempted to follow in the consumption of booze for pain relief, but he was paranoid of further headache that may result from a hangover. He didn’t think it particularly safe with a concussion, no matter what Nurse Petrelli thought.
Idly, he watched his unaware companion as Peter fantasized and…licked his ice cream. Sylar’s interest sharpened and he found himself staring at the obscene display, licking his lips unconsciously of any residual ice cream, forgetting the stick in his hand. His eyebrows lofted. Never mind that under normal circumstances Sylar would not find a man licking anything arousing but this wasn’t a normal circumstance at all. It had been a long time since he’d seen anything besides porn magazines (which didn’t really do it for him) and this here was live-action. There was no reason for that type of behavior and he wouldn’t care if there was; his eyelids had already lowered and he felt warmer; perhaps he felt…harder as well.
XXX
“I'd make the weather warmer, so we could sit outside in the sun and eat all the ice cream we wanted.” He looked across the table at Sylar levelly for a second or two, trying to make sense of what he meant by the 'we' that was in there. Then he brushed it off, raising his ice cream bar to suck at the bottom of it, where it inevitably melted first due to the constant warmth of his hand. “Not much point in getting out of here until I can take you with me,” he mused in between rude, short, sucking sounds. He knew he was being very immature and impolite about his food, but if Sylar was offended, he could go fuck himself. Peter was having fun eating.
XXX
Sylar blinked a few times to try to right his expression, allowing his brow to drop; he must have managed it okay. Something about taking me? But then Peter was right back at the ice cream - that goddamn sexual metaphor - with intensity. Sylar bit his lip at the noises Peter made. Live action plus the far more memorable sound effects. God, he’d been so long without action - he was eating this up like Peter was going at the ice cream. If it kept up, he’d be squirming in his seat, if not adjusting or outright touching himself. Jesus Christ. Peter, you tease. This was not the first time Peter had…creatively played with his food. Sylar felt sick, though, despite the flood of long-absent hormones. This was his enemy (sort of his brother) he was drooling over. It was a new low he’d achieved. His breath came shorter while he bit into the ice cream bar to rid himself of his urge to bite or growl about the teasing. He chewed voraciously even as the cold went to his head and his teeth. It was so bad but it was pretty good, too, this typical masochistic lust of his. With each lewd slurp, Sylar felt his dick harden that much more. He had other substitutes for Peter’s mouth than that ice cream bar, or so his imagination prescribed. He ran through the reasons of why, again, he wasn’t taking Peter by bodily force because it sounded like a really good idea right now.
XXX
“I guess I need to come up with a real rule. Everything I-” He stopped himself in the middle of saying he couldn't think of anything he'd want that Sylar would be willing to give (like cooperation or promising not to act like an asshole). He stopped because he'd thought of something he did want, that maybe he could get. “I'd make it a rule that you had to be truthful about your medical state to anyone who was providing health care services to you.”
Peter looked for Sylar's reaction, sucking at the top of the ice cream bar to leave behind the top inch or so as a hollowed out shell. His next move would be to bite sections of that shell off bit by bit. Then he'd start on the sides.
XXX
Erect. That’s my medical state right now. Hopelessly erect. Teased to potentially violent action? Sexually frustrated? Insane? Check, check, check. Sylar met Peter’s eyes, certain his own gaze was ravenous. It snapped him out of it with a blink and a snarling grimace at having to tear his attention away from Peter’s icy pink mouth around an ice cream bar that would never, ever be innocent in his eyes again. He slumped back, forcing his sex-starved mind to focus on whatever rule Peter had decided on.
Who says I haven’t been truthful? “Wouldn’t that just rob you of the fun of figuring it out? Like choose your own adventure or something,” he swallowed and cleared his throat but it had nothing to do with the conversation. “That’s assuming the health care provider isn’t in a position and has no inclination to fuck you up. I’m not going to present you with opportunities like that.” (Even though he’s been fine so far)…It just bothers me because I can’t figure out why my health and comfort suddenly matters.
XXX
Peter sighed and frowned, directing his attention back to the shell of chocolate. He wanted to defend and argue, but if his conduct to date hadn't been a good illustration of his ethics, then no number of words was going to help. It was depressing, though. I thought I was doing a good job. I haven't killed you, or stabbed your eyes out or slit your throat or … yeah. 'Inclination' - concussion or not, I guess he can tell that.
XXX
On a literally pressing subject, Sylar rasped, “I’d like to get laid. I’d make a rule about that.” And I’d like to enact it now. To hell with ruining tonight’s slumber party - if Peter could say what he wanted, then so could Sylar. To hell with Peter’s little ‘not my type/I won’t sleep with you’ statement, too, when testosterone and blood was pumping to his organ.
XXX
Peter's eyes narrowed at that, glancing up from having munched down the thin layer of chocolate and effectively shortened the ice cream bar to about two-thirds its previous size. “You know, for someone who's afraid I'm going to smother them in their sleep, you're awfully pushy about getting in bed with me.” He leaned back, half-regretting his words, half-pleased that he'd said it anyway.
XXX
A couple of blinks, then a slight tilt of his head was his only reaction. Sylar didn’t appreciate (or find accurate) the use of the word ‘afraid.’ Paranoid, maybe. Justified. You have no reason to be nice so I know I wouldn’t enjoy it - you’d make sure of that. And who said anything about sleeping together? That last thought he found the most interesting.
XXX
Peter huffed, shooting an accusatory look at the champagne bottle. He shook his head, his feelings continuing to be ambivalent - he should apologize, but he didn't care, both at the same time. “Fine. You'd make a rule about that if you were king of the world. I'd make it a rule that people had to look out for each other, instead of screwing each other up all the time.”
With another sharp exhale, he went back to his ice cream, prizing off the strip of chocolate from one side and then the other, less enchanted with it now that he'd gotten pissy over Sylar's insinuation that he was a bad nurse. Or whatever it was Sylar was insinuating. 'Hey, I think you might kill me if you had the chance - that makes me so hot' just made no sense at all. Peter kept his eyes on his side of the table (and mostly on his ice cream), quietly bristling, good mood abruptly spiked by the indecipherable contradiction.
XXX
Sylar glared, his plans foiled once again (not that he’d really expected it to work - maybe Peter just hadn’t had enough booze, yeah, that was it. Though he didn’t legitimately want to fuck a drunk Peter). Oh, because you’re here to look out for me, not your girlfriend. I can still ‘screw’ you, Peter; don’t test me. To his relief and regret, Peter seemed through with his more obscene eating habits - the majority of it seemed to be chocolate coating. Sylar pushed at his erection with the heel of his hand to give it the hint that it needed to disappear, taking a large bit of ice cream again, focusing on the cold of it. I guess it’s my turn again.
“I want my abilities back. Here,” he stated petulantly, mournfully, frowning at his treat, then at Peter. “Just to have them. I miss having them. Even if it’s not the same without people.” They’re not really special without people to see them. Same for me. I’d make a law that I’d be special but it wouldn’t be real - I haven’t earned it. It was honestly like being an amputee suffering from phantom limb. They were at least familiar and comforting - the abilities, not people - hell, he probably liked his powers better! Humans being something he could never figure out. Abilities, unlike humans, met his needs. “I think if…there were more people my, um…the…the Hunger would come back, you know? It’s a trade-off, I think,” Sylar admitted without knowing why, maybe just to draw Peter out of his mood, get him to engage again. That much was surprising, the implication of a trade-off - it was unexpected. It wasn’t like he’d been faring any better when surrounded by people. “I’m surprised it didn’t come back with you being here.” Even if your ability is pretty worthless. You make me hungry in other ways, I guess. Sylar glanced over what little he could see of Peter’s body above the table.
XXX
“Glad it didn't,” Peter said, Sylar's disclosure softening him from his momentary grumpiness. “The Hunger, that is.” He watched as Sylar gave him something of a sizing up, eyes traveling over him almost palpably. Peter cocked his head a little at that, then took a sedate, sucking bite out of what was left of his ice cream bar. That Sylar was looking him over didn't bother him. If anything was going to perk Peter's interest, it was appreciation followed by an absence of aggression - not that he was interested. He directed his attention back to the ice cream bar, now entering that careful phase where you tried to keep what was left of it on the stick long enough for you to eat it before it fell off.
He was studying the ice cream bar when he said, “I'm not real happy about you cutting my head open. If I were king of the world, I'd make you apologize for that.” I don't know if I'd believe you, but it would be nice to hear it. He glanced up a few times as he finished his dessert, sucking the stick clean and then nibbling at the ring of chocolate left on it. There was no heat in his voice or even much in the way of accusation. What Sylar had done to him way back in Mohinder's apartment was wrong. Peter was still ticked about it, but he had far greater offenses to reserve his wrath for.
He put the stick down and cracked open his bottle of water, taking a swig before asking with simple curiosity, “Was it the abilities you liked having, or what they let you do?”
XXX
His gaze since returned to Peter, Sylar spared a second to contemplate the difference. His own didn’t abilities immediately strike him as having those two aspects so clearly - they were almost one and the same for him - but he’d killed other specials for the sins of self-loathing and misuse. There definitely was a difference. “Both.” It was something of a random question filled with meaning (or so he supposed). “Does that…matter somehow?”
XXX
“Well … you said you wanted your abilities back, here, but I couldn't tell if you wanted other people around or not. It made me wonder if it's just having the abilities that you like, or if it's using them on other people - what you can accomplish, what you can change. It's the difference between inward-directed or outward, I guess. One is …” he waved his hand vaguely, “the abilities change you, make you different; the other is the abilities let you change everything else.”
Peter pondered for a few moments, staring sightlessly at his plate, empty of all but a clean popsicle stick. His brows twitched as he thought of another way to put it. “It's like, which do you enjoy more - getting to play the game, or winning it when you do get to play? Would you play if you didn't get to win?” He looked up, watching Sylar with a serious intensity, like the conversation had strayed into something really important. Ironic, then, that Peter didn't know which answer was 'right' or 'better'. The part of him that wanted to be moral and good thought abilities should be judged by how they let you change (for the better, he hoped) the lives of others. But another part of him, a more selfish, denied, and hidden part, wanted to start that change with himself.
XXX
Sylar listened and crunched on the ice cream bar as he did so, contemplating the dialogue and the ideas therein. It was an increasingly personal question. The second analogy boggled his mind because he couldn’t tell what belonged to which - changing himself or the world and playing the game or winning it. He dismissed it. “I still…like both. But if I had to chose…Hmm,” he made a sound of indecision. “It can go either way. I suppose the most effective one is changing yourself.” Sylar threw a check-in glance Peter’s way, almost to see what the other man thought of that, if it was…approved. The guy was watching him intently; it made Sylar wonder what he saw when he looked.
A little uncomfortable, especially with the hanging implication that he wanted or felt he needed to change himself, he made to redirect: “It’s not just…using abilities on people. That’s all you seem to do with them, but there’s more to it. I like that I can reach out…” He extended his hand in a very familiar motion, as if he was choking someone - Peter -- or reaching for something invisibly cylindrical, “and take something.” Fingers flexing, he heaved a rueful sigh before he relaxed back - his target, Peter’s empty glass, unmoved on the table. “I used to be able to. The power of the mind. It’s raw but I can harness it. Do things no one else can.” Be special. Powers substitute what I wasn’t born with. Special comes from the inside, then the things you do with it. I need people and powers to be special. By myself I’m not much. Face darkening, Sylar tried not to remember a similar conversation with Maya in some dusty car in Mexico or how clumsy he’d been with telekinesis at first with Chandra.
XXX
Peter stiffened, sitting up straight, pulling in air, and leaning away. Adrenaline silently flooded through his system, making the room surreal and unimportant - his attention utterly riveted on Sylar's hand. He can't … he can't … he can't do anything … right? He tried to breathe as he waited, finally noticing Sylar's gaze wasn't on him, but on the glass in front of him. Nothing happened and Sylar went on with his spiel, having been focused on his target and not the man sitting behind the glass. A variety of reactions were parading through Peter's mind - attacking, fleeing, smashing aside the things on the table and issuing loud, confrontational threats, or doing nothing at all, as Sylar didn't seem to get how his 'reaching out and taking things' interfered very directly with people's bodily autonomy and sometimes, their life. Peter finally managed to pull in a deep breath, letting it out slowly while a cold sensation of pins and needles flashed along his skin as the fight-or-flight hormones faded.
XXX
He bit down on his mostly-bare popsicle stick and sucked it clean before raising his eyes to Peter once more, fairly certain his explanation had gone over the hero’s head. Sylar cleared his throat to hopefully cue a shift in the conversation.
XXX
Peter was still sitting there immobile, though paler than he had been before. When Sylar finally looked directly at him and cleared his throat, Peter jerked a little. “Yeah. Well. We're done here.” He nodded to himself, standing and gathering up his plate and empty glass, carrying them into the kitchen with steady, sharp movements that betrayed his suddenly elevated tension. He didn't do anything. I've got to relax. It's no big deal, he thought, trying to sooth his nerves.
XXX
“No, Peter…C’mon…” Sylar practically whined. The other man’s abruptness was obvious, the cause less so.
XXX
That tone of voice had Peter glancing back, eyes narrowed to slits as he looked over his shoulder from the sink. He doesn't have a clue. He didn't even mean it. But he should have. Is he killing people without even understanding …? Peter turned away again, shaking his head. He didn't feel that Sylar's issues were his problem. He's still a murderer.
XXX
Sylar stared after Peter for a moment, sighing, and getting his own rear in gear to clean up. It hurt his head to stand again. I don’t even know what I did. He asked a question and I answered it, he stewed, taking his plate and cup to the sink. ‘Be honest, but don’t answer my questions’ is that it? Why ask the fucking question then, if you don’t want my answer? The air was tense with discomfort and awkwardness, any proximity was unhelpful. He wasn’t happy about it, having preferred their amiable meal much better. He huffed and moved with rough efficiency, going back for the crackers, twisting the plastic sleeves closed, stuffing those back into the boxes which went into the canvas bag while Peter handled the cheese.
Some birthday. Can’t even sit through one fucking meal without fucking something up. Talking too much again. Something about this was bothering him, the formula seemed familiar - trying to please and failing, having the night’s events and his role in them dictated to him. Wandering back into the kitchen to be useful or close despite the aura, he asked, “Do you want this?” when he spotted his barely-sampled champagne cup, lifting it so Peter could see. Great going - he’ll probably think I mean to get him drunk. “Just…Never mind,” he replaced it on the counter in frustration. Let Peter handle it. He swiped at his brow, positioning himself hopefully out Peter’s way.
XXX
Peter looked at Sylar's glass. He wouldn't mind more champagne, but he was done with the meal and done with dealing with Sylar. He just wanted to get away from him and besides, drink out of Sylar's glass? Uh, no thanks. As Sylar was still more-or-less underfoot, very present in Peter's space (or at least the room Peter was in, which was closer than Peter wanted Sylar to be at the moment), he directed, “Go get the rest of the champagne and put it up.” He watched with still-angry eyes as Sylar moved off to do it. Marginally less tense, Peter added, “You can turn the cork upside-down and it should fit.” He sighed, turning back to close the fridge after putting away the cheese, and set the knife down next to the sink.
XXX
Sylar gave him a matching look but took up the bottle and made to follow the instructions, getting the cork off the screw and turning it dry-side down for reinsertion. He shoved it back inside and placed it in the fridge.
XXX
The only things left on the table were the bottles of water. Peter carried them back, offering them to Sylar to put in the fridge as the man turned from putting away the champagne. His voice another step calmer, Peter said, “Yours is the one partly empty. Mine's the nearly full one.” He looked away after brief eye contact. “I'm going to go to bed.”
XXX
Sylar accepted the pair of plastic bottles, positioning Peter’s on the left, his own on the right. It made sense given that the master bedroom (Peter’s for the night) was on the left; the guest bed (Sylar’s) was on the right. He moved out of range of the fridge door, turning to look at Peter as he spoke. A nod was all he could answer with, unhappy with the- with his situation. He didn’t want to sleep but knew he should. Mostly he hated having the stigma of Peter’s hatred for whatever it was he’d done to earn it (again) more recently. It would probably result in nightmares despite the proximity with the other man. If I could just hear him breath when he sleeps, I’d feel better. But that’s the whole point.
XXX
Peter walked over to the open-plan bedroom he'd chosen. He felt exposed, not even sure Sylar was going to go to bed himself. What if he stayed up, hung around in the living room, which was just feet away from Peter's bed? It's not like I haven't fallen asleep with him around. Of course, he was a bit more concussed then and hadn't just reminded me of how much he likes to go Darth Vader on people who annoy him. Just because, 'raw power of the mind' and stuff. Peter exhaled. I'm not going to live in fear. 'Fear is the mind killer' … isn't that from some other movie? His brows pulled together as he failed to place the quote.
Peter gave a brief shake of his head at the irrelevancy and moved around the bed, putting his back to Sylar and sitting down. He brought up one foot to rest on the opposite knee as he unlaced his shoe, tugging it off and dropping it aside. He wiggled his toes, running his fingers between them and looking at the state of his sole. The blisters from his first few days here were now unremarkable, pink patches of skin that he recognized only because he knew what he was looking for. He rubbed over them, massaging his foot for a moment before switching to repeat the process with the other shoe and foot. When done, he picked up the shoes and loosened the laces so they'd be quick and easy to put on in a hurry if he needed. This last wasn't due to Sylar - it was something he'd been doing since being hunted by Homeland Security. He set them down together right where his feet would hit the floor in the morning, socks on either side.
XXX
Sylar aimlessly almost followed Peter into the bedroom. Instead he hovered between the bathroom and master bedroom, staring at Peter. He didn’t know why he did it, really, just that Peter was here and more interesting than any room. He didn’t know what he was looking for, if anything, because he didn’t expect to see anything amazing. It was that stupid longing for human presence, and, as usual, it came across as creepy and perverted and desperately lonely when he wasn’t angering the life forms around him.
He found interest, though, even in Peter’s most mundane actions, perhaps because these - performed with Peter’s back turned - were unguarded. He knew the empath’s back was still sore and that he’d been limping some days ago, but Peter’s care of his feet (of all things) was attentive. Sylar assumed they were bothering Peter somehow - why else look at them? Not that they were bad looking feet; Nathan had grown up with those feet but Sylar couldn’t see them clearly from where he stood now.
XXX
He pulled his shirt off over his head, looking back to see what Sylar was up to. Peter didn't usually sleep wearing much - boxers were his usual, but it wasn't like he'd brought anything with him. He wasn't going to advertise his paranoia by remaining in his jeans, and sleeping in underwear was too confining to be comfortable. Going naked … despite his desire to conquer his fear by facing it down, that was a step too far. (Also, parading around nude was rude.) Peter dropped the shirt on the bed and stood to go through the dresser and closet for options. He finally settled on elastic-waisted sweat pants. A retreat into the bathroom allowed him to change and take care of his needs before emerging in his new sleepwear.
XXX
So much for not seeing anything amazing - Peter’s shirt came up and off, revealing a toned, tan back (because, of course, even Peter’s spine had to be muscled). As a body part it wasn’t a provocative one, but the amount of it, bare as it was now, and the knowledge that it was very nice human skin, when Sylar hadn’t seen any in years, was tempting. More so because of how soft it looked. The other man glanced around to see where he was. Sylar didn’t move, though he felt he probably should. What are you waiting for? A lullaby? A good night kiss? You’re not his brother.
While Peter rummaged in the drawer, Sylar withdrew to the other bedroom. He’s actually going to wear something he found in a random apartment? He’s still wearing the clothes he arrived in. Maybe that was his own personal preference, but wearing ‘someone else’s’ clothes seemed unappealing to Sylar. Am I supposed to change? Should I leave the door open? Oh, what the fuck - its not like he’s going to check on me. Sleeping in jeans didn’t give him trouble. Not when he’d been sleeping fully-clothed for….well, a long time. Don’t lose any clothes this time.
He glanced up at the sound of various bathroom pipes activating but Peter didn’t appear in his doorway. Sylar sighed and sat on the bed. Unlike the master bed, its side was up against the wall. He tugged off his shoes, setting them by the side table. His coat was next - he rested that on the foot of his bed. He felt his head pound at the idea of lying prone on the mattress and his body suddenly dragged from the exploits of the day. Pulling back the covers allowed him to slide inside. It felt weird, this bed. It was way too big even though he mostly fit on it for a change, unlike his own cot. This felt too…open. Having sheets and a comforter was also strange but there was no help for it. Resigning himself to feeling miserable, nightmares, the strange bed and vulnerabilities therein, he clicked off the lamp and tried to burrow into the blankets.
XXX
Peter pulled back the covers and waited silently for more than a minute, not sure what he was listening for. Sleet was still stinging against the windows now and then, accompanied by gusts of wind, but if Sylar was making any noise, Peter wasn't hearing it. He's always been good at stealth, Peter thought, considering the various times the man had just appeared out of nowhere - at the end of the corridor at Wells High, at Kirby Plaza, and most spooky of all, at Mohinder's apartment. He shook his head and climbed under the covers. Thinking about how good Sylar is at sneaking up on me and mur- trying to murder me is pretty dumb for going to bed with him in the next room. Is it murder if I recover? I think it would be. Attempted murder at the very least. Ow, hand hurts. My wrist, too. And, damn it, my back. Should have taken some painkillers … maybe drank more ...
Peter struggled to find a comfortable position, being too tired to toss and turn. Instead, he made a few unhappy, inarticulate grunts, trying out two or three positions before deciding to bore himself to sleep thinking about the law. It worked, but his first dream was an outgrowth of those thoughts - he and Sylar were sitting in Nathan's political office, just like they had been before Rene showed up to tell him about the storage unit. Except Sylar didn't look like Nathan. He was just Sylar and in the dream, Peter didn't mind. They were chatting about Mom and the carnival and things he couldn't remember real well, hanging out relaxed with one another. That was all it was - an unsettling dream, to be sure, but milder than the reality.
There were others - some banal, some disturbing, some just half-waking sensations of very real pain or wariness. The combination of discomfort, unfamiliar setting, and apprehension about his roommate did not sit well with his subconscious. Although he was usually able to direct himself out of troubling dreams, he grew tired and frustrated with himself and tried to force himself to stay asleep. So when the nightmare started, he did.
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Sylar had managed to doze at least, his full bladder protesting enough to keep him from sleeping well. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he grudgingly woke himself. No nightmares yet but by going to the bathroom, he hoped to prevent any at all (unlikely). The headache had faded to a dull roar but it quickly raced to more sharp, shooting pains of being awake. He groaned and grumbled to himself, peeling off the warm covers to stand on unsteady feet. Without waking fully or being consciously aware of his surroundings, Sylar walked to the closet - approximately where his own bathroom was in his apartment. The handle was different and he couldn’t find the light switch. What he could see didn’t look like a tiled bathroom, so he looked around the rest of the room to figure out where the hell he was. Recollection hit him - he wasn’t in his apartment - and slowly the layout came back to him as well. He shuffled down the mini-hall to the bathroom - this time succeeding in finding both light switch and toilet. “Gah!” the light blinded him for a moment, literally, stabbing his eyes. He brought a hand up to get some relief from the glare and felt his way to the toilet using the sink counter. He was definitely sitting this round - sightless and unbalanced as he was from his injuries.
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Like the other dreams, it was just a situation - Peter’s thoughts too disjointed for anything with a plot. His father was trying to force him down into a cargo container like the one he'd been confined in for that horrific trip to Ireland. He knew cargo containers usually had their doors on the ends, but this one in the dream had it in the top - it was decidedly coffin-like. At first, he teetered precariously on the edge, Arthur trying to push him in with what Peter assumed was telekinesis while Peter resisted with some unseen power of will. A final, vicious shove and Peter lost his balance with a rough gasp, barely catching himself from plummeting into the yawning blackness beneath him by using flight. He couldn't get away, though. No matter how much he strained, he couldn't seem to evade his father's power. He groaned low in his throat, the noise coming out as an uneven rasp. He fought with the blankets for a moment, thinking they were his dad. Tangled in them, he lashed out unevenly with his right, being rewarded with a stab of pain from his broken hand.
The pain pulled a sharp cry from him as his eyes flew open but he didn't truly wake. It was dark - whatever light there was from the other rooms wasn't enough to penetrate Peter's sleep-fogged fear that he'd fallen inside the container and was going to be locked away forever, forgotten and starving in the oppressive darkness, deprived of everything and everyone, even of his sense of self.
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Rubbing at his forehead to try to ease his wounded retinas, Sylar heard one of those emergency noises, the kind that automatically raised the hair on the back of his neck. In the dead of night. It caught his attention instantly as he was finishing up and he paused after drying his hands, head cocked to listen better, body tense and alert. When it didn’t happen again he went about washing his hands, dismissing the sound. Stupid concussion’s making me crazy. Crazier. Peter’s not helping any.
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His mind rationalized the pain as being from falling. He was trapped then! He made a whimper as tears welled in his eyes, but he scrunched them shut, concentrated, and tried to fly again. Peter felt himself rising and he was almost out of the container when his father appeared again, looming over him angry and judgmental and determined that Peter know his place. “You're grounded!” Arthur shouted at him, pointing a finger at him that made Peter's chest clench in fear. It drove all the breath out of him.
That was almost the end. His concentration broke and his flight failed, but something caught him. Sylar was standing off to the side on the roof of an adjoining container, moving his hand surreptitiously, levitating Peter with his telekinesis. Peter wondered if he'd ever been flying at all, or if it had been Sylar helping him all along. He ignored his father and tried to call out, “Help me!” The words sounded like a hoarse whisper. Peter tried to repeat them more loudly, but although his throat strained, he feared he was too quiet to be heard. “Sylar! No … help-” Stymied, Peter thrashed, trying to reach the edges of the opening he was hovering over. If he could grab an edge … “Get me … get me there … Sylar ...” He struggled with the name, trying to repeat it even though his lips seemed to have turned to ice. His father must have been using an ability on him. Numbly, his tongue stumbled over the name of his potential savior.
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Hand on the switch, Sylar was about to feel his way back to bed with his would-have-been scorched retinas, then he heard it again. This time it was much clearer; he heard words but the alarmed tone was the same. His eyes had been closed as much as possible to protect them but now he forced them open, painfully, asking into the night, “Peter?” It sounded like him. That was my name. “Whatcha need?” Because, obviously, those were very needy sounds. If only he could decipher the location and cause…maybe then he could get some sleep. He left the light on and moved towards the last place he remembered seeing Peter. There was some motion on the bed, he could see with some bathroom backlighting. “Pete?” he said again, looking for confirmation of some kind. He got none. His question turned to worry. “Pete?” The pained motions on the bed ceased entirely.
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Then Peter stopped, going totally still and rigid, not even breathing. Someone was coming close to him - Sylar, he thought. Wasn't that Sylar walking closer, calling him 'Pete' of all things? He would have been annoyed by that if he wasn't so desperate and frightened. His father was still there, a looming threat ready to strike at any moment. He was outside of Peter's field of vision, but that only made him all the more terrifying. Peter made a noise in the back of his throat, trying to ask Sylar for help but he wasn't sure the sound made sense. It came out more as a plaintive bleat of attempted verbalization.
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Sylar was awake as he was going to get, anxious as hell. Oh, God. Did I hit him too hard? Was it the food? The champagne? Does he have an infection? An allergy? That last noise tore at him. It was not a good sound; that was all he knew. An old, familiar instinct roused in him. As quickly as he could - which given the length of his legs meant considerable speed - Sylar went to Peter’s bedside. Something besides floor, some semi-hard object, met his foot when he got close, startling him further. He swore and lost his balance, catching himself on the bed and, since he was in a hurry, he went ahead and sat on the mattress beside Peter, uncaring for once where they touched. “Pete!” he reached out for the younger man’s shoulder, shaking him for a response. Goddamnit, where’s the lamp?! He didn’t know, his shadow partially blocking the light from illuminating Peter. What’s going on?
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Continued...